


nothing but my aching soul

by solitariusvirtus



Series: musings [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Four Moments, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Impossible Romaces, Jeyne Poole - centric, Surviving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5017009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeyne Poole can never win, not in this life. But she can dream and even broken-winged wrens can remember what it is to fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing but my aching soul

They drag her away from Sansa. Jeyne cries. She kicks and screams, yelling to the top of her lungs that they cannot do this to her. She is a lady. She will not be treated like this. _Aren’t they knights?_ She is swiftly silenced with a well placed slap that leaves her jaw vibrating with pain. Blood trickles down her chin despite her tongue brushing over the wound that has formed.

The tears are now streaming down her face, blinding her as they pour out in torrent.

But Jeyne is not given any reprieve. Jeyne is not Sansa, despite being a lady just like Sansa.

 _Her father served under a traitor._ That’s what they tell her. She is a traitor as well. Jeyne wants to cry out that she isn’t. She has not betrayed anyone. If Lord Stark is the traitor then why isn’t Sansa the one being dragged away?

But she hasn’t the chance to. They have already weighed her, judged her and found her worthless.

So Jeyne finds herself in a small dark cell with a tattered blanket and dirty straw on the ground.

It is there she stays until someone finds that they do need Jeyne for something after all.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It’s in the brothel that she finds herself thinking of Beric Dondarrion again.

He seems like one of those half-forgotten visions from a dream. A kind looking man, handsome and tender. Everything that Jeyne has ever wanted. And for some reason she clings to that image of him, cherishes the last memory and wishes, oh how she wishes, he would ride through the street of King’s Landing once more and sweep in to rescue her.

She closes her eyes when the whore touches her naked shoulder. “And when he touches you, show him you desire him,” her instruction continues. “Men are simple creatures. They don’t need much.”

Slim, long fingers trace a path to her collarbone. Hot lips press against hers. “Open,” the whore whispers harshly, “open like you would do for your lover. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Jeyne’s lips tremble in uncertainty. She receives a slap for her dawdling. It’s no use opposing them she thinks.

But she can lose herself in her own mind. So the maiden opens her lips and thinks of the lover she would like to have. She calls to mind red-gold tresses and a peculiar smile which has never before failed to leave her weak in the knees.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Her husband is a monster. Jeyne clutches her midriff tightly trying to ignore the blood that still trickles down upon smooth thigh, smearing white skin a dark burgundy. At least she is alone now and she can cry to her heart’s content.

Once upon a time, she dreamt of wedding a grand lord and surpassing even the fair Sansa.

This must be her punishment. For daring to reach so high and for failing even the simplest of tasks. _A good lady wife,_ this is what they asked of her. But whatever she does, even within the guise of Arya Stark, she can never be a good wife.

Jeyne has long come to accept that there is no kind knight to save her.

But is it wrong that she wants to believe there is someone out there who cares for her anyway? She wants to return to this thought every now and again, from time to time after Ramsay Bolton is done with her, and she wants to think of Beric and his kind smile.

Arya Stark will whither between these walls, die at the hands of the creature into whose arms they’ve pressed her. But it might be that Jeyne could somehow pull through. Even if it’s just a small piece of her. Even that is enough.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

In the dead of winter she meets the red priest.

She is finally Jeyne once more; a broken, used puppet that finds her use around the King’s daughter. Shireen is good to her. The girl hasn’t many companions she can call close and Jeyne is one of the few options. Despite her rather tragic past, she is allowed to sit together with the girl and speak softly in front of the fire.

Theon has been kind enough to ask for her, to ask whenever he can if anyone known anything about a knight of House Dondarrion.

Her dreams die, of course. Jeyne’s eyes fill with tears reflexively. By now, it has become almost inconsequential whether her fantasies have any grounding in reality. She can cling to a ghost just as well as she could to a stranger.

Nonetheless she asks the man to recount to her every death. All seven of them. And for each she lifts a prayer to the skies.

Beric was not of the North, but mayhap the gods can better aid the dead than they can the living.

“Did you know him, my lady?” the priest asks.

Jeyne’s eyes focus on the man. She hesitates. “Nay.”


End file.
